


(Carry On) Let It Be Broke

by kat_fanfic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hale fire, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, slight h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:06:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_fanfic/pseuds/kat_fanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day his Dad brings the boy home, Stiles is feeling especially world-weary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Carry On) Let It Be Broke

The day his Dad brings the boy home, Stiles is feeling especially world-weary. He rolls the new word around on his tongue, getting used to the taste of it, liking how it describes the heavy weight on his chest so perfectly.

“Stiles,” his Dad says as he comes in the front door. His voice is oddly gentle, the way it’s been for a while now, ever since Mommy went away to the white room - _hospital_ , his mind supplies instantly – and didn’t come back.

He’s staring up at his Dad from where he’s crouched on the floor. Behind him, Mrs. Connelly says something to Dad, probably apologizes for not making him get up from there. He likes it in his little corner. It has a perfect view of the door and when it’s quiet enough in the house, he can hear the cars passing by outside. One of them will be his Dad, he knows, and that makes listening to them worthwhile.

Stiles ignores the housekeeper’s – he refuses to call her babysitter even in his own mind – attempt to talk herself back into his Dad’s good graces. It’s not really that Stiles doesn’t like her. She tries really hard, he can appreciate that, bakes him cookies and reads to him and even lets him watch some television sometimes. It’s just that she’s not someone he’s willing to make an effort for these days. Few people are. 

“Stiles,” his Dad says again, obviously waiting for something. 

“Oh,” Stiles breathes, remembering suddenly that he’s supposed to react. “Hi Dad.” There is something moving behind his Dad’s wide frame and before he can think better of it, Stiles is up and moving towards the door. 

His Dad looks faintly surprised, reaching out as if to stop him, but then he lets the hand drop and moves a little to the side. There is a boy huddled on their doorstep. He is wrapped in a police jacket that is several sizes too big on him and he has dark smears on his face. He smells like campfire, but something tells Stiles that there’s nothing warm or homey about this particular smell. 

Stiles stops in front of the boy. He looks vaguely familiar, even with the way his hair hangs in his face in sweaty bangs. It takes a while, for the huddled figure to acknowledge his presence. Stiles knows how that feels, being so wrapped up in one’s own head that outside stimuli take a while to penetrate. 

More new words. Suddenly, he is thankful for Mrs. Connelly’s reading sessions. She has a way of explaining the complicated words without making him feel stupid. Maybe he should tell her that someday. 

There are tear-tracks on the boy’s – teenager’s, he amends – face, clearly visible in the glaring light of the front-porch lamp and he’s shivering slightly. It’s not that which makes Stiles move forward with outstretched hands. It’s not even the small choked sound the boy makes. It’s what he sees in the boy’s eyes that has Stiles try to frame the thin face with his small hands. 

It’s the same look he sees in the mirror sometimes, when he forgets to close the door properly and so the bathroom isn’t steamy enough to fog it up. “Shh,” he says, because it’s the only thing people could say that didn’t make him want to throw up all those weeks ago as he stood beside a fresh pile of dirt.

He doesn’t even blink when he’s pulled into a sudden embrace, surprisingly strong arms wrapping around him tightly enough that it would be uncomfortable if not for the overwhelming sense of security it brings.

“Shh,” he says again, breathes it into dark hair and from the corner of his eye he can see his Dad turn away, his face a grimace of pain and helpless anger. Maybe he should give him a hug too some time, Stiles thinks absently, but then he gets distracted by the warm weight in his arms. The boy is shaking against him as if torn apart from the inside out and all Stiles can do is hold on tight.

It takes a long while for the boy to pull back. There are fresh tears glistening on his face, and underneath he’s so pale that it reminds Stiles of the dead baby bird he’d seen once, a long time ago, when they still spent their summers at Grandpa’s farm. That was before the white room, of course, before everything changed. 

He thinks of the poor mama bird that had sat beside the unmoving little body, cooing at it. Only the crying of her other chicks had pried her away, hours later. But what if it had been the whole nest lying on the ground? Would it have broken her enough to stay there indefinitely?

The thought bothers him, prompts Stiles to search the boy’s face. He wonders if him being here means that there isn’t anyone else anymore. 

“Don’t give up,” he whispers, doesn’t really know what makes him say the words other than to make some of the bleakness in the shuttered eyes melt away. Stiles had never considered defiance to be a good enough reason to hang on, but he’ll take what he can get from the broken boy in front of him.

He doesn’t stop to question why this stranger matters so much to him, it doesn’t even occur to him to find it odd. When their eyes meet for the first time, Stiles returns the bleak stare head-on. From somewhere, he draws something that almost feels like fortitude and he tries to transfer as much of it as he can over to the one person that needs it even more than he does himself. 

“Excuse me,” someone says then. “Sheriff Stilinski? I’m here to collect my brother.”

It’s a girl’s voice and she doesn’t sound much older than the teenaged boy that’s still somewhat huddled into Stiles. He vaguely sees her slight frame, long auburn hair and pale skin that shows the blood relation between her and the boy Stiles still holds.

He can feel his Dad move behind him. “Laura. I’m sorry, we didn’t even make it into the house…”

“That’s fine,” she says, but there’s a quiver in her voice that betrays how very not fine everything is. Stiles can relate. Things have been not fine for him lately as well.

“Thank you, for taking care of him while I was at the hospital,” the girl continues quietly and Stiles knows that she’s trying to sound older than she is. It’s sort of working, as if what happened has catapulted her toward realizing her potential. Still, a certain sense of innocence lingers on her and it brings back glimpses of a happy girl that used to ride her bike through town and throw snowballs at the swinging sign of Mr. Hartman’s grocery store. 

“Yeah, no problem,” his Dad says and it’s a little strange to hear the same uncertain quality in his voice that used to bother Stiles so much hearing not so long ago. Death makes people awkward, he knows. “How is your Uncle?”

The girl hesitates and Stiles turns his head a little to see her face. It’s just as sooty as her brother’s, though the tear stains are missing. “He’s hanging on,” she says and it’s only because he’s watching her at an angle that he sees her hand curl into a fist. “We can’t stay here, there’s too much… we have some distant relatives in New York. They know we’re coming.”

Nodding, his Dad hands her a card, gives her the whole investigation still ongoing spiel and asks her to stay in touch. He ends it with: “And if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. Anytime, Laura.”

Her smile is watery, but sincere. “I will.”

Still, Stiles feels that it’s the last time he will ever see the two of them again. “Tenacity,” he murmurs as he lets the boy go. There’s a tiny nod, almost imperceptible.  
“Derek,” Laura says and Stiles starts, knows that the name will forever be etched in his mind. 

He expects them to embrace, to cling to each other. They don’t and it saddens him. He watches them go, sees Laura try to put an arm around her brother and him flinch away from her touch. His stride is determined, though, as if there’s purpose behind it. It’s not what Stiles would have wished for the other boy, but it’s more than he expected.

Turning towards his Dad, he smiles up at him. “Can we have spinach casserole for dinner?”

He watches his Dad do a double-take and revels in the crooked grin that blossoms on his face. “Sure. But I thought you hated spinach?”

 _I do_ , Stiles thinks. “It’s supposed to be very healthy,” he says out loud. He’s going to take care of the one parent he has left. “Lots of vitamins and trace elements and stuff in it. Do we have salad? I want salad.”

Its years later that he sees the boy again, when he’s grown into a man with too many issues and no family. “Dude, that’s Derek Hale!” he says to Scott as they stand in the middle of the woods like idiots. The _the loneliest guy on the planet_ is implied. 

The whole werewolf thing is both a drawback and an advantage in Stiles’ vague plan to make Derek un-lonely. But he’s seen on the discovery channel that wolves mate for life and he’s read the Twilight books (or at least the Cliff’s Notes version on cracked.com) and so he knows what imprinting is and that is _so_ what happened on his front porch ten years ago. 

Now, he only needs to convince Derek of that. _Piece of cake_ , he thinks as he faces off the Alpha pack, hand at the small of Derek’s back.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey, guys, if you enjoyed this, please consider bidding on me at the Sterek Campaign Charity Project! I'm offering two fics á 5K each. More details here: http://www.sterekcampaign.com/2012/12/08/auction-details/  
> Thank you! <3


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